Early Winter
by CatsbytheGreat
Summary: Christian has finished writing his story. Now he must move on.
1. Out

**Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge! or any of the characters. **

**Author's Note: I have changed one little detail here. I have the Moulin Rouge still open, even though this takes place after the movie. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!**

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**_The end. _

It is done, finished. Somehow I feel as though telling the story has done me better than any drinking spree has ever done. Remembering, oddly enough, has given me more relief than trying to forget. Perhaps it's because I could never forget no matter how hard I tried.

Perhaps it is because _she_ didn't want me to forget.

It's been awhile. I don't know how long. The story is done. Now where to go from here? I could try to get another job as a playwright. I haven't written things like that in a long time. I wonder what would come out if I did. Something miserable. Something without a happy ending. I live in a world where there are no happy endings.

The story is done. The sun shines through my window, illuminating the room. I stand up. Paris looks oddly beautiful today. It is cold outside.

For the first time in…months…I feel the urge to go for a walk.

I go through motions that seem long forgotten. Wash my face, shave—how long has it been since I've done that? Put on clean clothes, make myself generally presentable. I'm not looking for work, not today. Can't run before you walk, you know. Just going out to explore.

You know, I've been in Paris for awhile and I never truly got to see the city. I never took a walk for the sake of taking a walk.

I only really went between my garret and the Moulin Rouge, and to me that was what Paris was. Even the train station by which I arrived seems like another world altogether now.

The sun hits my face as soon as I go outside. It really _is_ cold.

And then my eyes adjust and there it is, the Moulin Rouge, its red windmill turning. It stands out on the street, staring blatantly at me, and I have to stop and take a deep breath, which comes out in a cough. I don't look away.

The Moulin Rouge is not closed, but I know it has lost its spirit. Everyone here has either left or become somewhat depressed after Satine's death. That golden age of bohemian art is over, replaced by something more real. And reality is a tragedy, here.

This was a bad idea.

I should have known that I couldn't handle it. I should have stayed where I belong, inside, but I've been in there too long and besides, our story is in there too and I feel that it would be a little crowded. I need room to breathe, to think. I need to find out where to go from here.

I avert my gaze and slowly, carefully, make my way down the street.

Montmartre lies on a hill, and I find myself going not up, but down, towards the Seine. It is the river that runs through Paris, and I have never seen it up close before. I would have liked, if we had been given the time, to have taken a walk with Satine along the river's edge. I have heard that it is beautiful. The sort of thing that can inspire a poet such as myself.

At first I can only think of the Moulin Rouge. What shall become of her? And then I'm in unfamiliar territory and everything else distracts me—the buildings, the people, and then, the river. It is beautiful, and I take a walk alongside it. It is cold. The water flows sluggishly, I walk slowly, and I wonder what it would be like to just jump in and let the current take me where it will.

It is not a suicidal thought. I have no ideas, nowhere to go, and surely wherever the river could take me would be better than anything I could come up with.

The river could take me away from here.

I've come to realise that love can destroy everything. Love makes everything seem perfect, when you're in love, when it's all going well. Nothing can be wrong with the world until it all starts to go awry, and then everything is. And when love dies, well, the world dies.

There is nothing wrong with Paris. Paris is a beautiful city and I should be happy to be living here. But my love in Paris went wrong, and it killed the city for me. It would seem irrational for anyone who has never had that sort of thing happen to them. There are few people who can understand. There are few people who would want to understand, if they knew what it was really like.

The Seine is beautiful and Paris is beautiful and I can even admit that Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge, in their own way, are beautiful. But I can't enjoy any of it. There are too many memories here.


	2. Failure

**Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge or the characters. **

**Author's Note: I hope you enjoy! The part about a true love story was inspired by Tim O'Brien's chapter 'How to Tell a True War Story' in his book 'The Things They Carried'. It's a great book, and if those of you who read this have the time, you should really check it out. It's a great book.  
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**The walks become a part of my daily routine which, until now, has consisted largely of nothing but sitting and drinking and occasionally weeping. I still haven't got it in myself to look for a job, or to do anything but wander the streets of Paris and get to know the city a little better.

Most of the time, I'm not seeing anything. I'm too absorbed in my own thoughts, and I imagine what things would have been like if I had never come to Paris at all, or if Satine had never died.

Thoughts like that can drive a man mad. I try not to get carried away with them, but they come up regardless.

It is winter now, and despite the cold I still spend large amounts of time outside. The cold is numbing. I rather like it.

Sometimes, it becomes hard to breathe, and I cough, and it reminds me of Satine and I don't like to think about that. So instead of returning home, I keep going and ignore it, and hope that it goes away.

Occasionally, I think of going back to England. It would be easier to put this all behind me in England, and I could get a job. But I would be proving my father right. He would delight in my failure here. I failed quite _spectacularly_.

Honestly, I didn't expect it. I know I didn't because I was so innocent and naïve and I thought that if I was in love and if she loved me then we could overcome anything. That was what I had always believed, and people told me time and again that I was a fool for thinking so. I never listened to them. I thought they were wrong, I would have bet my life on it. Well, look at what happened.

I must have become cynical.

Well, love can do that to you. Many people would read my story and tell me that it isn't a love story. It doesn't have a happy ending, it's rather tragic, and what kind of love story is that?

_Romeo and Juliet_ was a tragic love story, too.

Tragic love stories…they have to be the truest love stories ever told. Anything else, anything perfect, is not _real_.

I am walking along the Seine again. It is now almost frozen, but not quite. Chunks of ice float down the river, none of them completely connected. I stop for a moment to watch the ice flow, the pieces crashing into each other and then being pulled apart again by the current. It seems almost cruel.

I feel a light tap on my shoulder.

The feeling of being touched startles me. I haven't been touched in ages. I shudder and turn and find myself facing a young woman. She's pretty, with pale skin and brown hair and large eyes, and she has a small smile on her lips.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," she says, her voice soft, "I believed you dropped this."

I look at what she's holding up. A gray scarf. My scarf. It must have slipped off while I was walking. To be honest, I hadn't put it on with much thought as to whether it would stay on or not. I take it from her, give her a weak smile.

"Thank you."

I slowly wind it around my neck, a bit more securely this time.

She watches me intently as I do so, and I wonder whether she has to go anywhere, or if she is going to watch me all day.

"Are you alone, Monsieur?" she asks, putting her head to one side. She looks so _innocent_.

I open my mouth and close it again. It's such a simple question. I can't answer it.

She blushes. "I'm terribly sorry. I was just wondering…if you would like some company. You see, I'm a bit lonely as well."

I stare at her. I've forgotten how to talk to people, how to talk to women, and the very idea of it makes me feel sick.

Suddenly, I can see Satine in my mind's eye, telling me to say yes, to take her for a walk. _You have to move on,_ she urges me. _You have to _live_ your life. _But that's easy for her to say because she's dead, and I'm alive and I don't know how to live anymore. I'm not _prepared_.

She's waiting.

I manage to stammer out a response. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Mademoiselle, but I have-er-business to a-attend to. I m-must be getting back." And I turn and walked briskly away, not sure of where I am going or what I am going to do, but anything just to get away from that women who had done nothing wrong other than ask me to walk with her…and now there is Satine's voice in my ear telling me how ridiculous I was being.

I walk into the thick of the city, but I couldn't tell you where I end up even if I wanted to. There is a bench, though, and I sink down onto it, breathing heavily, exhausted. I put my head in my hands and try to drown out the voices, but I can't and I know I've gone and messed up again.

And you, Satine, are watching everything.

I realise what a fool I've been, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I've ever done, and for believing that things could go perfectly, and for not being able to get over the love I lost and move on with my life.

I'm sorry I can't live my life for you, Satine, even though that is the only thing you asked of me. All I am good for is writing our story, and now that I've done that I am good for nothing.


	3. Vision

**Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge or the characters. **

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**It's nighttime and it's Paris and there are lights everywhere, and for the first time since I've started exploring the city I notice that Paris is truly beautiful, and why would I ever think of leaving?

My breath comes in gasps and I feel lightheaded, but perhaps this is just the feeling the city gives me on a night such as tonight. It is terribly cold, but I must keep walking because otherwise I might miss it and tomorrow it will be the same sad city I have seen it as for the past two years.

Now the lights are dancing, dancing like the girls who danced at the Moulin Rouge the first night they brought me there, the Argentinean and Toulouse, and then there was Satine, the Diamond, and she was asking me to dance and I _did_, and then everything came like a whirlwind from there.

I stagger onward.

There she is, at the end of the street, beckoning me forward. She looks so beautiful, her pale skin positively glowing in the light of the street, snowflakes falling all around her, and she is wearing white and she looks like an angel. No, she _is_ an angel.

Wait, I thought she was dead.

I need to reach her, to touch her, to hear her voice. It is hard to breathe now, but a small price to pay if I can see her one more time as she was when she was alive. I love her, I still love her, and it pains me, but she's _right there_ and everything will be alright if I can only get to her, even though she still seems so far away.

"Satine!" I gasp.

She tilts her head and I push myself forward, but she never gets any closer. Her expression is strange. A small, sad smile graces her ruby red lips, and her eyes pierce my soul.

Then she speaks. "Christian." Her voice, exactly as I remember it, the one that has haunted me. Slightly breathless and with so much tenderness that I almost break into a run, but my chest feels tight and my heart is beating so fast that it hurts, and I stifle a cough.

_I'm coming. _

She watches me, does not move closer, and although I'm still making my way towards her she's always the same distance away.

"Christian," she says, her eyes sad, "what are you doing?"

I gasp, I stumble forward, and the dancing of the lights becomes even wilder, and Satine stands out more than anything, but she is still so far away…

"I love you!"

The words echo in the street and fall dead, and I stop because my legs have stopped working and the lights are moving this way and that and I can still see Satine but I don't know how to get to her, and the lights and snowflakes fall all around her.

"You have to go on," she says, her voice a sweet murmur.

"But I can't," I gasp.

She shakes her head. The lights all blend into one and she disappears, and the street and the buildings and everything else begin to disappear, and the only sound is my ragged breathing, and then I can't breathe.

And then I disappear.


	4. Hope

**Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge or the characters. **

**Author's Note: I'm sorry about not updating for awhile, but I do have a good reason. I was on vacation, to London and Paris. And I did get to see the Moulin Rouge, and Montmartre, and it was very interesting for me since that is where the movie Moulin Rouge is set, although in a different time. Still...But now I am back and hopefully will have the time to update and write more. I hope you enjoy! **

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**I come to and someone is wiping at my eyes and forehead with a cold, wet cloth. It is uncomfortable. My throat burns and I suddenly have the urge to cough, and my limbs feel heavy and everything hurts.

I turn my head to the side and cough, and it is worse than I expected, the coughing fit taking hold of my body and causing it to shake. I have never felt so sick in my life. I open my eyes, it hurts, and notice that my white bed sheets are stained red. I raise my hand to my mouth and wipe at the corner. I pull it away. There is blood on my hand.

There was blood on Satine's mouth, when she died.

Someone moves into my field of vision. The cloth is no longer on my forehead. I turn my head and Toulouse is there. I thought I would never see him again. I stopped talking to everybody after Satine's death. I thought he would have hated me.

He glances my way and then says, "You're awake."

I take a deep breath and ask, "How did I get here?"

"I was walking the streets and found you lying in the snow," Toulouse says, very matter-of-fact like. "I took you here. I called the doctor and he came to check on you."

"Oh." I look away from him for a moment. "Thank you…You didn't have to, you know."

"I didn't," Toulouse says, "but you are my friend, and I wanted to."

I look up. "We haven't spoken since she died."

Toulouse shrugs. "You're still my friend."

I sigh. I don't know how he can simply be my friend again, after I pushed him and everyone else away. I change the subject.

"What have you been doing?"

"I've been helping Harold," Toulouse says. "He's been trying to get the Moulin Rouge back on its feet for the longest time. It isn't working. Everyone is too sad."

I don't know exactly what to say about that, either, except that I know what he means. Then I ask, "What did the doctor say?"

This time it is Toulouse who remains silent and looks away, and I start to feel dread. What does this mean? I ask again, and when Toulouse looks up, his face is marred by tears. I am shocked; I have never seen him cry before.

"The doctor," he stammers, "he said that you…are dying…of consumption."

"What?"

I don't know what to do. I have no idea. How on earth--?

"You contracted it," Toulouse continues, "from Satine. I know you did. You had contact with her while she was sick." He pauses, trying to keep his emotions in check. "How long have you known?"

"That I was sick?" I am still in shock. I had felt a bit ill for awhile, but I thought it wasn't anything serious. But then, I had ignored it. The coughs, they reminded me of Satine, and I hated to think of how she died. But now I know why they seemed so familiar. "I-I don't know."

"You've been killing yourself, Christian," Toulouse says, "and look, you've succeeded." He seems angry. "Now you are going to die!"

I take another breath. Toulouse turns away from me and I don't know what to say. We both have changed so much since we first met; we're both strangers to each other. But we should both, at the very least, understand why.

It hits me. I am dying.

I need to offer Toulouse something, a peace offering, some words of comfort. I can only think of one thing.

"I wrote our story. I wrote the story about Satine and I, about the Moulin Rouge…about love."

Toulouse turns around and it takes him a moment to comprehend. And when he does, he grins, and I realise it has been a long time since I have seen anyone smile as sincerely as he is smiling now.

"Then there is hope," he says.

I don't know what he is talking about, but I nod just to make him happy. Still, the words stay in my mind.

There is _hope_.


	5. Conversation

**Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge or the characters. **

**Author's Note: Not much to say here, but I have officially heard both versions of the song that contributed the title to this story. I first heard it live at a Keane concert; then I heard a recorded version of "Early Winter" by Keane. And yesterday I heard the Gwen Stefani version. I rather like Keane's better, not just because it's Keane, but for the lyrics. Surprisingly, there is a difference even though Keane performed it as a 'cover' song. Just an interesting little tidbit on the thing that gave the story its title. I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
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**I should be happy that I am dying; the sooner I shall be with Satine. But when one is dying, one begins to wonder about death.

I realise that death is a very daunting thing.

I've never been a religious man, but suddenly I find myself wondering about heaven and God, and whether all that exists and, if it does, whether I am beyond saving.

"No one is beyond saving," Toulouse tells me. We have been spending more time together. He reads my story and I watch his reactions and listen to his comments, and after he is done for the day we just talk. "We are all sinners. And all sinners can be saved."

It seems so simple.

"When I came here, I wanted to make something out of my life," I tell him. "I think I still might want to, and that is why…well…"

Toulouse knows what I mean, although he does not like to think about it. "You have," he says. "You have lived the ultimate love story and you wrote it down. Do you know what you can do? You can publish it and the world will read it."

I stare at the thick manuscript in his hands. Publish it, for the world to read it, and suddenly it wouldn't just be mine anymore. People might love it. Or worse, people might ignore it.

The thought comes to me that artists' works are more appreciated after they've died.

"After I'm dead," I say, the words a surprise to both me and him.

Toulouse stares. "This?" he asks, holding up the manuscript.

I nod. "That way, I don't have to be around for the aftermath. Let people make of it what they will."

Toulouse is silent. I cough into a stained handkerchief. The red against the white disturbs me very much, especially to know that it's coming from me. This is the colour of my death, the red against white. This was the colour of Satine's death.

"Are you…angry at her?" Toulouse asks, suddenly.

I look up. "At Satine?" He nods. I shake my head. "How can I be angry with her?"

"You are suffering," Toulouse says. "She caused you much suffering in life—"

"That wasn't her fault," I interrupt.

"And in death," Toulouse continues. "She gave you this disease."

I hadn't thought about that. I hadn't wanted to. She probably knew it was contagious, and I knew it was contagious, but I hadn't known she had it until the night she died. I should be angry, but I can't be angry with Satine. She's dead. What's done is done, and I'm tired of being angry. I love her still.

"No," I answer. "I can't. I love her. If this is what she leaves me, then so be it."


	6. Dying

**Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge or the characters. **

**Author's Note: Another chapter. I hope you enjoy it! **

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**It is spring, and it is harder and harder to live.

Physically, that is. I find myself in better spirits now that Toulouse is with me, now that I have someone to read the story I've written even though he, too, lived it. I think that, perhaps, little by little I have been healing and I am moving on. It's ironic that as I find myself emotionally better I am worse off in every other way.

Sometimes it scares me, how weak I have become, and how unpredictable death is. I would love to know when my day will come, but I don't know. All I know is that I am constantly getting worse, and there are good days and bad days, as Toulouse likes to call them, and that there are more bad days than good ones.

One day Toulouse suggested we go for a walk. It did not turn out well. I passed out, and we ended up back in my garret, where we started. He hasn't dared suggest another walk again.

He is almost done with the story. I wonder at how long it has taken him to read it, but then again, he often stops to make conversation and to comment. I often lay in bed; sit up when I am able. I find that I am sleeping more often. I wonder how on earth Satine performed when she had this disease, and the only conclusion I can come up with is that she was a goddess. It sounds like the sort of thing my father would call nonsense and perhaps that is true, but for me Satine was larger than life.

Even in death.

"What are you going to do after I die?" I ask. Toulouse looks up, startled out of his reading.

"Publish this," he says, smiling.

"And then?" I ask. I know that he can't simply spend his life doing nothing. He isn't that sort of person. I always thought of him as the sort who needed to be doing _something_.

He looks thoughtful. "I might try my hand at painting, again." He hasn't painted in awhile, it seems. "Or I could find work at a theater. There are many theaters in Paris…"

"You miss it, don't you?" I'm talking about before, the times when we were all happy and preparing for the play and nothing was wrong. He knows without me saying.

"Yes," he whispers. "I miss it, despite everything."

I nod. "I think I do, too." I bite my lip. It had been the best time in my life, and the worst. "I don't know why I tried to forget; I don't want to forget."

Toulouse holds up the manuscript. "That is what she was hoping for, I think."

I look out the window, see the Moulin Rouge, no longer lit as it was before, a long time ago, and I wonder if perhaps this is a sign that things are changing, not only for us but for everyone else.

If, perhaps, the world no longer has a need for bohemian artists and places like the Moulin Rouge, and that is why we are dying.


	7. Knowing

**Disclaimer: I do not own**** the characters or Moulin Rouge.**

**Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story! I hope you enjoyed it, especially since this was my first Moulin Rouge fan fiction. And I hope you enjoy this last chapter.  
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**Toulouse says it is summer, but I disagree. It is freezing and I think that winter is coming sooner than it should.

I can't move, I can hardly breathe, and Toulouse still hasn't finished my story. I'm not thinking about that story now, though. I can't concentrate on anything. It seems that there is too much to think about and too little time.

Outside the window it is bright. It hurts to look, but I do so anyway. The Moulin Rouge is still there, only a shadow of her former glory. I can imagine I see Satine staring back at me in the distance from the elephant behind the windmill. I always thought it funny that there was a windmill there, but now I realize that the elephant is even more curious. Why had I never thought of that before? Well, there is always something new to think about…

And then there is the rest of Paris. It looks so beautiful, and I regret not having appreciated it for what it really is. I would love to take another walk along the Seine but I can't, so I imagine that I am walking along the river instead. Sometimes I am alone and sometimes I am with Toulouse. Most of the time I am with Satine, having conversations with her that we never got to have in reality because we never had the time.

_Time_. How much of it have I got left? It can't be long now…Things are getting blurry and it's harder and harder to breathe. Sometimes I don't even know if I'm awake or dreaming anymore. They've become the same thing, anyway.

Something moves and Toulouse is saying into my ear, "I've finished."

I turn my head towards him. It requires much effort. "Really?" I breathe. "What did you think?"

Toulouse sounds a bit choked up when he speaks. I wonder why. "It was the greatest story about love I have ever read."

"It…was only…the truth." I am interrupted by a coughing fit.

Toulouse has his hand on my shoulder, almost as though he is trying to anchor me to this earth. I find this silly; I couldn't keep Satine here by caressing her as she died, and he can't keep me here by holding onto me.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn…" he trails off. "You've lived a full life, you know. You learned it."

"The greatest thing?" I murmur. It's amazing he can hear me; I can barely force the words out.

"You believed it once," Toulouse says. "Do you still believe it?"

Do I? It would seem that after everything that happened that it isn't true. How can the greatest thing be to learn to love and be loved in return? Where has it gotten me?

But how many people can say that they experienced what I did? There was a moment, there onstage, where Satine and I were perfectly happy because we were perfectly in love. We became one person there, ready to be with each other forever. True love and we had it, and I had never felt so great and good and full of life as I did then.

When I think of that moment, the feeling is still there, still strong. This would be a lot worse if I did not have that feeling to go by, but it has taken me until now to realize it. After Satine died, I focused more on what I had lost than what I had gained. These past few months I have slowly been learning to be thankful for what I had and have…but it was hard.

Now I know.

"I still believe it," I tell him.

"Thank God," he says.

I nod, and turn over. I feel suddenly exhausted and it is cold, but Toulouse sees my shivering and places a blanket over me and I feel better. My eyes close and I can feel myself slowly sinking into the bed, relaxing, and drifting off.

I fancy, just before everything goes dark, that I can hear Satine singing our song in the distance and I want to go to her and sing my part and tell her how thankful I am that she was the one who gave me true love. I want to tell her…

Now I know.


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